I know loneliness again when I imagine friends listening to music with me while I drive. They materialize rearview: skin colored ghost, lassos of veins floating in pondwater pumped by translucent heartbeats. One friend propping their head with an upturned wrist, one friend chilling cheek to window, one friend closing their eyes, left hand holding right like a ripe fig—welcoming hibernation. Here, we sit in an aquarium of soil, our ears no longer planets for good gossip. There’s no point in the sun unsuturing mountain from sky, no point in clouds that spill onto us like drunken children. Peel your eyelids back for me: I want your real name.
If I pluck off an arm and place it in front of me,
would anything grow in my palm’s curve?
An orange, apple, peach? If I stared
long enough, would it dissect itself—first
my womb-scarred hand, then
the fruit, then the pit, the poison inside.
I tried to do what I was told:
sit up straight, walk with your chest puffed,
let yourself speak loud, deep, and confident,
tips to being man before age ten. I angled
myself into degrees so thin
the moon would shake with its quiet,
sought the tealight in each stone
and blew it out.
Like a cave, I surrender.
Logan is currently earning his MFA in Writing at California College of the Arts in San Francisco. His work has appeared in Enizagam, Eleven Eleven, A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism, and Maudlin House, among others. His poems reveal deep worldly secrets and, occasionally, cure the common cold. He can be contacted via unknowmenclature.tumblr.com, & twitter @bugcatcherlo.